


Celebrations

by distinguished_like



Series: Come And Go With Me [2]
Category: John Lennon - Fandom, John Lennon/Paul McCartney - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, Anal Sex, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:19:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinguished_like/pseuds/distinguished_like
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys have returned from their first journey to Hamburg, and they're feeling a little rough, to say the least.<br/>(Come And Go With Me Extra)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrations

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Come And Go With Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/896535) by [distinguished_like](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinguished_like/pseuds/distinguished_like). 



“This is tragic. Well and truly tragic.”

George’s voice made Paul blink out a blanket of sleep still stuck in his cloudy eyes. Not the only things that were cloudy, of course. The sky. It was alarmingly bright – white and shocking when you first took a step outside, making you want to curl up like a vulnerable (assumedly fluffy) animal and pray for warmth and shelter.

The two young men were stood down an alley at the back of George’s home, leaning against the familiar red bricks that seemed to follow you everywhere you ended up in Liverpool; cigarette smoke floated up above the both of them, wafting through the nippy air, spreading some warmth around their faces.

Nippy, cloudy, likely probability of rain.

Both boys had sunglasses on.

There was a sigh shared between them as Paul flicked the cigarette between his fingers, watching as ash crumbled off the edge and drifted to the floor.

“We shouldn’t have touched alcohol last night,” George stated factually, waving his cigarette a bit too carelessly in Paul’s direction. “We shouldn’t have even got a _whiff_ of it _._ I still felt a bit wonky ‘cause of New Year’s Eve, for fuck sake.”

Paul chuckled, but squinted when it made his brain pound vigorously against his skull. “Wonky meaning hungover,” he translated for his friend, nodding his head and folding one arm over his stomach. He gave himself a moment to yawn. “I get ya’; it’s the same for me. My head was bangin’ all week. I don’t know why I’d even _think_ I could take another drink.”

It had been over a week since 1960 had come to an end and for some reason Paul wasn’t feeling quite as optimistic about the New Year as he perhaps should have been. After him, Pete and George all being deported home from Germany, leaving John to travel back home to Liverpool alone granted Stuart had elected to go ‘into hiding’ with Astrid, none of them had been feeling particularly optimistic about 1961.

The band had gone a while with no contact after John got back. Paul supposed that John had a strop on with them all for ending their stay in Germany like that, leaving them all uncertain that they’d ever even be able to go back to Hamburg, go back to the life they had there.

It wasn’t really a life at all, come to think of it. It was dark and damp and it was sex. Pure sex. Meaningless, barely even satisfying sex.

And by _God,_ was it tiring. Keeping up the charade that they were fine with the way they were living; that they were fine with sharing rooms and getting no sleep down to magic pills that strangers offered them when they started to get drowsy on-stage.

But Paul (many thanks to cheap German beers and fancy spirits) had been under the impression that Germany had somehow immunised him against the devilish looms of alcohol; he thought he could take as much as he fancied and still be ready to go again, with only two and a half hours of sleep and a bit of ecstasy.

So when he was faced with a New Year’s party with mostly everybody he knew, he was more than a tad gutted when he found himself curled over a grotty toilet bowl at the back of a club in the backstreets of the city centre, throwing up anything he’d hoped to digest over the past few weeks, and woke up to what you could possibly diagnose as _the_ worst hangover humankind has had the misfortune to undergo.

And it lasted.

It lasted all week.

Through every gig they did, he had a bloody raucous hangover.

And so did George.

And so did Pete.

And so did John.

By the seventh day of the New Year sprung upon them, they’d given up completely with pretending that they were still performing alright – pretending to be enjoying themselves and faking opinions was a very trying act to keep up, Paul had discovered. It was exhausting, in fact.

So once they had wrapped up at Lathom Dance Hall on Saturday the 7th of January, they’d continued on to a bar, and got absolutely shitfaced to pass the time.

Again.

And Paul regretted it deeply.

…Again.

But for now, he relished the warm smoke filling his lungs, the pinch of heat around his fingertips as the cig he held deteriorated to a stub.

George had started his second and he kept on running his fingers through his hair in what seemed to be agitation; he was uncomfortable, jittery. He’d been the nauseous one all night; waking up and claiming he was going to be sick, and then simply falling back to sleep. Repeated false alarms, keeping the whole house on edge.

John slept through the whole thing, the prick.

“Good lovely Sunday Morning, ladies!”

 _Speak of the devil,_ Paul thought, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Mornin’,” George grumbled miserably.

Paul leaned off the wall to look at John through the shadows that his sunglasses provided. John was stood in front of them, dressed and perky and delightful and awake as ever, his hands on his hips with his guitar on his back as though he was off to see the big wide world at ten o’clock that Sunday morning.

“…no fucking way,” Paul groaned. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

“Ho ho ho, mon petite… uh… friend,” John started, flailing about smugly and smirking haughtily. “I have discovered – slash invented – the perfect, one-hundred-percent reliable cure for a hangover.”

“Oh, aye?” George chimed. “An’ what’s that then?”

John smiled. “Have a fucking mental auntie waiting for you at home ready to smack you one for following the wrong career choices and generally being a complete throwaway no matter what I do… and for getting drunk with my very irresponsible bandmates and not returning home all night."

Paul nodded. “Very motivational, I perceive.”

“You perceive correctly, oh wise one,” John retorted, still wearing a smile that looked almost robotic. “Now… shall we be off then, Paulie?”

Paul frowned. “Why? What’s the rush?”

“Mimi awaits, and I want to go to bed now,” John answered, shrugging nonchalantly.

“You’ve not long woken up!” George yelled.

“George, pal, we got into your house at five in the morning. I could have woken up at six in the evening and I’d still be wanting to go to bed. It’s instinctive.”

Paul sighed and dropped his cigarette to the floor, stamping it out with his shoe. “Right, well,” he started, turning to George. “Duty calls, I suppose.”

“John duty,” George added, grinning slightly. “Oh, you love him really, you big daft queer.”

Paul tried to hide the blush creeping onto his pale cheeks and laughed slightly instead. “Go to bed, George,” he commanded, taking his guitar case off John and turning to walk down the alley to escape the estate and make their way elsewhere. “See you when I see ya’,” Paul chimed.

“See ya’ when Paul sees ya’!” John added, as they sauntered away from the little house.

Once they were a few minutes away from George’s house, Paul turned to glance at John. “Right,” he started. “So, we’re not really going to deal with Mimi right now, are we?”

“ _Pffft,_ no, don’t be ridiculous, Macca,” John answered. “I’m not having that ringing in my ears all day, I’ve already got a headache to battle off. No, we’re going to your place, son.”

“ _Mine?”_ Paul repeated. “You’re a dick; I just wanna’ go to sleep again and chug a few cups of tea.”

“Well, so do I. How convenient. I’ll be joining you, then. Perfect.”

Paul sighed, but argued no more.

 

20 Forthlin Road was quite possibly the most welcoming sight Paul had gazed upon in what seemed like a long time, when he reached it. It was warm in juxtaposition to the cold outdoors, and as soon as the door closed he was greeted with the comfort of John’s body pressed against his back, his arms wrapped around his waist. He almost allowed John to remain like that, for them to remain so peaceful and as they _should_ be; he closed his eyes in a moment of solace, and then sighed, unwrapping John’s hands from his stomach.

“Wait, John,” Paul whispered. He mentally prepared himself. “ _Dad?! Mike?!_ ” He yelled up the stairs, cringing as the sound of his own voice rang in his ears.

The pain was somewhat subsided, however, when no reply from neither Paul’s father nor brother came back to the two of them as they stood in the hall.

He could practically _feel_ John’s smug smirk.

“So,” came the older boy’s voice from behind him; Paul turned to discover him leaning against the door, his arms folded. “Where’s daddy gone, Paulie?”

Paul shrugged as casually as he could manage. “Auntie’s, I imagine,” he answered. “Getting Crimble decorations down or somethin’.”

“And what are we to do in the meantime, eh?” John challenged, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Paul licked his lips and finally took the sunglasses away from his eyes, taking a few seconds to adjust to the sudden change in contrast and colour.

“John…” Paul started, looking at the floor. “Why now?”

John seemed taken aback. “Why not now?”

“I know, but… it’s been weeks, John. _Months._ ”

And it had.

Hamburg had just been one enormous mess and it left no time for the two of them at all; they weren’t _John-and-Paul_ anymore, they were _John-and-Stu-and-Paul-and-George-and-Pete, with a dash of Astrid Kirchherr and Klaus Voormann._ It wasn’t the same as it used to be; it was harder, if anything – the freedom they assumed they had finally grasped was in fact just turning them more and more trapped and in many ways, isolated. Spending so much time with the same people makes you feel like one person, not _one, two, three, four, five, six and seven._ One person with some form of multiple personality disorder. And it was _maddening._

So where on Earth did John and Paul find the time to make love there, as they shared rooms with all the others? Where did they get chances to actually _talk_ in between playing, rehearsing and whoring? It was new world out there, a whole alternate reality.

Paul had always thought that him and John were universal, infinite and eternal – but it seemed – as they stood huddled in Paul’s old hallway at 20 Forthlin Road, Liverpool, England, hungover at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning – they were, in fact, going nowhere but same old rainy, wet-spot Liverpool.

And even after they returned to Liverpool, they were all distant, as if they were discovering their own identities all over again. John was moody with them all for a while too, because of the whole _we got deported_ issue, so there was that problem to deal with aswell.

Overall, it just felt like a whole new way of life. A different John, a different Paul, a different _John-and-Paul_ complex entirely.

So _why now?_

“Well…” John started, shrugging his shoulders and then rubbing the corners of his eyes as though he was in deep thought.

And then Paul was being pushed against the wall, kissed, held, loved.

For a second, vexation surged through Paul’s body and he felt like he was being smothered when he wanted to get to a point. Like his troubles and opinions were being disregarded by the only person he wanted to care about those sort of things.

And then John spoke again.

“Bath?” He whispered in Paul’s ear as he licked at his earlobe tentatively, his knee rubbing against Paul’s crotch.

Paul smiled faintly. “A bath, sure,” he chuckled.

John took Paul’s hand and led him up the stairs.

           

The bath water was warm and the two boys sat at opposite ends, looking at each other at last.

Paul took a deep breath as he sunk further into the hotness surrounding him. It was a tight squeeze, the both of them having to fit into the tub, but it didn’t matter much; they were comfortable like that; tight, compact.

He felt John copy his actions.

“Paulie,” he started, and Paul didn’t have to reply. He knew John was about to do some talking. “Ya’ know how it was in Hamburg. And I know I wasn’t right to avoid finding any time for us, and I’m sorry, Macca. I’m so sorry,” there was a pause and Paul felt John’s hand stroking his knee under the water. “But you remember that you didn’t make any advancements either, love, and it was difficult being where we were anyway, so, will ya’ forgive me?”

Paul chuckled to himself as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Yeah, Johnny,” he spoke, smiling to himself more than to John. “I forgive ya’.”

“Gear,” John breathed; the water started to slosh up the sides of the bath as John nestled down a bit comfier.

Paul smiled to himself again, breathing calmly and evenly.

It was a considerable amount of time before either of the boys decided to actually make a move towards a quick wash and hopping out of the comforting warmth, but when they did they hurried into Paul’s bedroom and jumped under the covers, leaving their clothes on the bedroom floor in a heap. They placed a towel over Paul’s pillow to prevent it becoming too saturated with their soaked-through hair, and they lay wrapped in each other’s arms again.

That alone was more exciting than the whole time they’d spent in Hamburg.

Suddenly, he felt John’s rough fingers along his jawline, forcing Paul to turn his head in John’s direction; when he did, thin, wet lips crashed against his, kissing him ferociously but no less passionately.

Paul kissed back tentatively at first; cherishing the intimacy they he had longed for. He knew he never wanted to be apart from John again; simultaneously, however, he was fully aware that there would come a time when they had to be away from one another, because it wouldn’t necessarily be a new experience.

There was a time before John, and rue as he was to admit it, there would be a time after him, too.

John started to flick his tongue over Paul’s lightly puckered lips, so Paul took the opportunity of enthusiasm to kiss his lover with more force, more power, finally lifting his hand to stroke John’s neck and just _feel_ him.

_Cure for a hangover._

Now he was getting it.

In one singular swift movement of some expertise Paul knew he harnessed, he put his hands firmly on John’s shoulders, holding him in place on the bed as Paul took the moment of superiority to hop on top of John, straddling his hips and grinding their naked bodies together; this, of course, had the desired effect of making John groan, making him lose control.

Paul smirked triumphantly.

John got the gist of things, Paul spotted, because he suddenly felt the warmth of John’s large, strong hands gripping at his hips, forcing the two of them together again. This time, it was Paul’s turn to lose himself in ecstasy – it was almost cleansing, Paul found himself thinking at the back of his clouding mind – a form of ecstasy in something that wasn’t a pill handed to you by a shady stranger.

In the haze of madness, John took the chance to flip Paul over and take his place on top of him, in between his legs. John leaned down and kissed Paul as his hands worked away behind him, finding the bed covers and pulling them over the two of them.

Paul chuckled from beneath the older boy. “Cold?”

John smiled. “A bit,” he admitted once the quilt had covered them and John had wrapped his legs and Pauls together, sharing body heat.

John’s lips had travelled along Paul’s face and towards his ear soon enough. The sensation of John’s hot lips against the top of Paul’s ear was heavenly and Paul smiled softly.

But something low in his abdomen and his testicles had started to ache, so he was relieved when John whispered in his ear, “Is the lube still in the same place?”

Paul smirked. “Yeah, Johnny,” he answered, although John had already leaned off him to get the bottle. “Bottom bedside draw.”

Paul wrapped his legs tighter around John’s body to prevent him falling off the bed as he reached down to the draw, and grinned as John’s eyebrows lifted in satisfaction as he got a good glimpse at the bottle. “You bought some more?” He asked, frowning.

“Well, I supposed it’d be a fancy change from Vaseline,” he drawled, grinning.

“Ya’ got it in Hamburg, didn’t you?” John jested, prodding Paul’s stomach slightly with the sealed bottle.

Paul shrugged. “Just in case,” he answered nonchalantly.

John kissed him then, tangling his free hand in Paul’s lasting damp hair. Paul had to restrain from hissing when he felt the coolness of John’s hand, wet with lubricant, against his erection, stroking along it with the calloused tips of his fingers. He was holding back, Paul could tell, but he was unsure if that was because he was simply teasing, or if he was saving the lube on his hands for himself.

Paul bucked into the touch, suddenly feeling his head spin in a sort of frenzy.

He heard John giggling from above him and almost groaned aloud. “Don’t,” he demanded, covering his eyes with his hands. “Don’t tease, please, Johnny, I can’t.”

John kissed him softly. “I’m not,” he whispered, leaning back and using his clean hand to slowly remove Paul’s hand from his face. “I’m not, Paulie,” he giggled when Paul showed defiance and kept his hand over his eyes. “Look at me,” he urged. “I wanna’ see you, c’mon,” he chuckled.

The way John said that he wanted to see him, made Paul give way – made him physically weak, if he hadn’t already been beforehand. He was smiling against John’s lips when they kissed again. He noticed instantly when John took his fingers away from Paul’s erection, but the butterflies in his stomach replaced the sensation as Paul realised that John was now covering his own cock in the German lubricant. His arse clenched and unclenched at the thought – no, the _memory –_ of John filling him up, the pain and the pleasure all mixed into one confusing, maddening but wonderful and fulfilling experience that he had seldom stopped thinking about since it had happened, all the way back on the tour in Scotland.

He felt John’s dripping wet fingers circle his entrance and then press inside him; it didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t nice either. Not yet. Nonetheless, he could feel John exploring inside him, swivelling his fingers expertly. It was enough for Paul to gasp and he couldn’t help but close his eyes in bliss.

John pulled out too fast and it made Paul hiss slightly, but the tip of John’s cock pressing against Paul’s hole was a hasty, more than sufficient replacement and Paul licked his lips in preparation and anticipation. He couldn’t prevent it when he groaned as John pushed through; once the tip was in, it wasn’t so bad; the further he moved in, though, the more stretching went on inside him, as if John was working through his whole body, memorising every little thing about him from inside and out.

When Paul opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of John hovering above him; he was chewing, very hard, on his own bottom lip, with his eyes clenched shut in what appeared to be thorough concentration, but could easily have just been pleasure.

Paul had started to pant, now; his breaths were the loudest thing in the room – _maybe_ second loudest. His heart was hammering like thunder inside his chest, which he could feel rising and falling when he placed his hand in a fist over his chest to try to keep himself somewhat grounded.

He was too unsettled, he knew; far too on edge to relax enough for neither him nor John to really get to the whole point of what they were doing at any point soon enough. He could feel the quilt tickling his arm every time John thrust slowly into him again, as the cover was draped over him. His whole body felt over-sensitive, like he was the most fragile thing on the planet.

He didn’t want that.

He hated it, in fact. The last thing he wanted after months of John-deprivation was sweet, soft, careful love-making; he wanted John to ravish him, wanted to ravish John in return; he didn’t care so much for time management. What was the point? Was he really that desperate for a decent orgasm? Was John? Was this not about the two of them, just seizing the moment they finally had to each other?

Paul felt a growl deep in his throat that escaped without him meaning it to as he heaved himself up from lying flat on his back to slamming his and John’s lips together with such force that it wouldn’t surprise him much at all if it left a bruise on one of them, if not both of them.

John seemed to not mind, though. He groaned loudly and the arm that he had been using to hold himself up on top of Paul, he moved to hold Paul around his waist, tight and secure, compacting their bodies together.

This time, yet again, it seemed to be Paul’s turn to be surprised. John started to lean backwards, subsequently pulling Paul back with him so that Paul was on top. It was an immensely complex manoeuvre, granted John was still nestled inside of Paul. It made Paul’s head spin out of control; he could feel every pristine detail of what was going on inside him; every shift and budge that was followed by John trying to find the position on the bed he had blatantly been searching for.

Normally, Paul probably would have laughed at the severe lack of co-ordination between them, as they proceeded to shift and shuffle about on the bed. Finally, John relaxed with his back against the cold wall that the bed was pressed up against, Paul sat in his lap.

Undeniably, Paul’s heart skipped a beat when he spotted the sincere look of utter love in John’s eyes as the older boy took the time to find the bed covers and wrap his hands in them. Paul opened his mouth to ask what John was trying to do, but there was no need: John placed his hands back on Paul’s waist, though higher up his abdomen this time. He tucked the quilt around his lover, and then pressed his palm into Paul’s back, just above his arse.

The noise that came out of John this time was loud and unashamed; he moaned loudly, evidently having got Paul in a position that he felt the most comfortable in; the most efficient for him to get off on it.

Suddenly, John’s forehead was pressed against Paul’s chest and his hands had settled firmly on Paul’s hips; he thrust into him hard the first time, making Paul gasp loudly. The movement was repeated three or four times; by the next time, Paul’s eyes had clouded over in utter surrender as a surge of what could only be described as heaven stormed through his whole body, making him tremble on John’s cock. John must have realised what he’d done and repeated his actions, hitting _that spot_ again, again, _again,_ until Paul felt he actually couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck me, Johnny,” he managed in a very strained whisper against John’s ear, gripping his lovers’ shoulders firmly, digging his nails into the skin. “C’ _mon,_ do me,” he pleaded, this time his voice coming out in something that might have sounded like a sob. “Oh, please, please…”

John was bucking into him hard and fast now, digging his own finger nails into Paul’s arse cheeks like he never wanted to let Paul go again, as if he never wanted to stop touching him, holding him.

“I love you,” John seemed to be muttering against Paul’s chest as he kissed Paul’s tender nipples, making his way up and over his very exposed collar bones and nibbling on looser skin every now and again. “Fuck, I love you, Paul.”

John hit the same spot inside of Paul yet again and Paul gasped, half in pain, half in pleasure, but it didn’t matter which it was anymore. His erection was rubbing against John’s stomach and the friction alone was tearing him apart. He couldn’t last much longer, he knew. He knew.

Paul’s hand grasped his own cock firmly and he wasn’t hesitant to start pumping his length, gnawing his bottom lip in concentration.

“Then fuck me,” he growled into the crook of John’s neck. “You love me? Go _harder,_ John; go on, _move– ah!”_

John did as he was demanded to and Paul bucked his hips down onto John’s erection a few times as he spilled over John’s stomach, unashamedly whimpering out as white light took over his senses.

He didn’t have much time to cherish the pleasure, though; John was still moving within him, still pounding his hips up into Paul’s arse; Paul leaned back for a second to try to get a glimpse of his lover, because nothing was more beautiful than John when he couldn’t think of anything other than Paul; a clear John, like the slate had been swiped, like he was free and eternally youthful.

John’s cheeks were glowing pink and his forehead was riddled in sweat, though the dampness in his hair could still simply be from the bath they had shared earlier on. Paul tangled his fingers in John’s wet, maple locks and pulled him close against him, tugging on the strands he had control of and pushing himself down hard onto John, fast, fast, _faster…_

It’s a funny feeling, the person you love spilling inside of you; the look of exhaustion and peace on their face as they lean back, their eyes closed. It’s an experience Paul highly doubted he’d tire of. Because John was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

They stayed where they were after John pulled out of Paul though; Paul’s head resting atop John’s, John’s face hidden in Paul’s neck. Their breathing was loud and simultaneous. It filled the silence comfortably.

John sighed and leaned up first, kissing Paul’s lips tenderly and stroking up and down Paul’s back softly.

Paul managed a strained chuckle.

“You never told me,” he breathed as he looked into John’s dark eyes, stroking one finger along John’s cheek. “You never told me why now.”

John rolled his eyes, though his expression was one of affection. “Well, we’re celebrating.”

Paul frowned, his face contorting into something completely baffled. “Celebrating what?” Paul inquired further. “Not New Year’s Eve, still. I think we’ve done quite enough of that for a life time.”

John’s laugh was music to his ears. “Yeah,” he agreed, relaxing against the wall behind them.

John was looking around the room a lot, and Paul assumed he was looking for something to give him a reason.

There, on the floor at the end of the bed, John spotted a magazine that Paul had thrown to the side. He leaned over the bed, picked up the object, and flipped through it nonchalantly.

Paul leaned off John slightly and chuckled when John frowned at what must have been the page he was looking for.

Finally, John’s eyes lit up and he grinned proudly, chucking the magazine off the bed again.

He jumped up suddenly and lay Paul down on the bed again; this time, John lay on his side, pressed up against the wall with his head propped up by his fist, staring down at Paul, Paul staring up at John.

“So, putting aside the fact that, say, maybe I just missed you… or maybe I just fucking love you still, y’know? Nothing went wrong between us, I just needed this. I needed you and I needed this and I need to feel your love again. Not to feel loved. Not by just anybody. By _you,_ Paul; because it’s all I want, most of the time. It’s the greatest privilege I could have hoped for.”

John stopped talking suddenly. Paul’s heart had swelled with overwhelming emotion and affection towards the boy he loved, the boy he had always loved. He stroked his hand over John’s side as he waited for John to continue.

“Okay…” He started. “But what are we celebrating?”

John laughed loudly, more of a bellow than a laugh, and tugged Paul close, kissing his lips passionately, like he was tasting him more than _just_ kissing him.

“Macca, darlin’,” John picked up, chuckling to himself. “We’re celebrating one Elvis Presley’s birthday.”

John winked and Paul sighed exasperatedly.

Not that he minded, truthfully.

Celebrating was fantastic, as far as Paul was concerned.

John was fantastic.

 _They_ were fantastic, yet again.


End file.
